


Sweet Boy

by derekmorgan



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies)
Genre: Fluff, M/M, Smut, like it's straight filth, some fluff but mostly smut
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-01-16
Updated: 2017-01-16
Packaged: 2018-09-17 21:07:49
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,020
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9344789
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/derekmorgan/pseuds/derekmorgan
Summary: Credence is getting off by grinding against a pillow. All is great, except it gets unmistakably greater when Mr. Graves stumbles upon the erotic scene.





	

Credence’s head thrashes as his eyes snap open, blown pupils casting up towards the ceiling and chest heaving as dim images of biting teeth and dancing tongues and entangled limbs linger in his thoughts. He isn’t quite sure if it’s arousal or guilt that turns over in the pit of his belly, but it still makes him swallow and shift uncomfortably in his too warm, too sticky bedsheets. His shirt clings to his damp back when he sits up, the prominence of his spinal column and shoulder blades visible even beneath the shirt, the outlines of the bones gliding with the thin fabric when he brings his hands up to rub his face. And when he hangs his head and runs trembling fingers through his disheveled hair, he is suddenly face to face with his throbbing groin.

With his cheeks aflame and a horrified glance thrown over to the partially open door, Credence swiftly reaches behind him and grabs a pillow to place over the tent in his pants. A mix between humiliation and vexation washes over him, especially when something that’s somehow both a gasp and a moan escapes his lips as the pillow drags over his erection. He instinctively clamps a hand over his mouth, out of fear that Mr. Graves heard the sinful noise he just made. And God only knows what sounds he had made while he was still asleep. The burning in his cheeks intensifies at the thought. **  
**

Of course, this wasn’t the first time this happened. Credence has awoken many times in the dead of night, gasping and writhing at the dreamful thought of strong, tanned hands grabbing him; _taking_ him. He never dared touch himself though, the looming possibility of Mr. Graves overhearing—or God forbid walking in on—him indulging in such a lewd misdeed enough to make the hardness between his legs bearable so that he could go back to sleep.

Mr. Graves, the only man who truly understood Credence’s neglect, who could match his lonesome and emptiness, and who knew what it was like to be used. Just his presence made Credence feel so full, filling him to the brim with something so complete and undiminished. Like a prisoner finally free from his dark, damp cell, walking outside with open arms to feel the light and warmth from the sun kiss his skin. Credence’s neglect, his loneliness, his emptiness, his worthlessness all fade in the light of feeling _whole_ for once in his life as he basks in Mr. Graves’ rays. And sometimes, when the older man is sitting across from him at the table, his chin perched on his hand and a thoughtful finger rubbing below his lip as he watches Credence eat, Credence wants to tell him just how complete Mr. Graves makes him feel.

But he is healing. They are _both_ healing. And though Credence thinks that coming together would make them both happier, would make the healing process much more swift, he also thinks it is completely out of his place to throw such an emotional curveball at the man. So he tries his best to be mindful, and he doesn’t get too close, even when Mr. Graves leans over his shoulder to grab something and Credence wants nothing more than to lean in and smell his cologne.

And if Mr. Graves—the man he held so highly, the man he felt so passionately for—saw him with a hand down his pants, Credence was positive he wouldn’t survive. So his first instinct is to take a cold shower, counting on the icy stream to tame the raging hard-on that was pulsing between his legs. But it’s when Credence goes to lift himself from the bed that he catches a glimpse out the window, the light blue color of the sky striking him with realization.

It takes a moment for him to register that Mr. Graves is still at work, and there is another long, thoughtful, hesitant pause before Credence drops his eyes to the pillow still in his lap. It’s sinful, so dirty, and incredibly impolite to even think about relieving himself in another man’s home unbeknownst to him, Credence knows this. But there is still a gulp, a deep breath, and a slow drag of the pillow against his groin that leaves him hissing, his eyes closing at the sensation.

 _He won’t be home until dusk,_ Credence reasons with himself, eyelids fluttering and hips lifting as he applies a little more pressure to the pillow. _He would never know._

His Adam’s apple bobs when he swallows again, his bottom lip drawing between his teeth as he tentatively grinds the pillow against his erection, his motions progressively growing more and more confident. After two minutes, he somehow finds himself straddling the pillow, his face buried in the bed as rubs himself against the plush between his legs.

But it isn’t enough, and he is positively _aching_ for more friction. So Credence lifts his head, shooting another wary glance out the window, and shimmies out of his pants. And then he’s fisting the sheets, whimpering wantonly when the sensitive, swollen pink head of his cock rubs against the stiff fabric of the pillow, pre-cum dampening a few grey spots into the white pillowcase.

“ _Oh,_ ” something bursts in his middle when he starts to move again, the flames of a growing fire licking at the interior walls of his chest. The rough drag against his overheated length makes his legs quiver, and Credence has to turn his face to the side, his cheek pushing into the suffocating bedsheets as his harsh breath scratches his throat. He chokes on his own filthy sounds, the bed frame slightly creaking under the repetitive motions of his hips.

Dancing along the black curtain of his closed eyelids are images of Mr. Graves, his hands caressing Credence’s cock, his raven eyes boring into the boy's, his wet tongue licking up his inner thigh. His lips are moving, in what Credence imagines are words of encouragement, and as he ruts into the pillow below him, Credence yearns for the pressure of those tanned, strong hands kneading his ass.

 

* * *

 

The second Percival apparates into the foyer, the first thing on his mind is Credence.

Typically arriving home in the evening, Percival's early return threw off his knowledge of the boy’s whereabouts. Of course the man had enough common sense to know Credence was fine, and most likely resting (hence apparating instead of noisily entering through the door), but he still let the nagging, obsessive part of his brain vitalize a pull of worry in his chest.

“Good-natured concern,” Percival mutters to himself, knowing damn well _why_  Credence seemed to have a permanent residence in his thoughts. It’s that “good-natured concern” that lures him down the hallway towards Credence’s room, swearing to himself that he just wants to ensure the boy is well, and that he isn’t just going in there to glide his dark eyes over the sharp cut of his jaw and the delicious pulp of his lips.

But his journey to Credence’s room ceases, the floorboards creaking under the abrupt halt of his footsteps. Percival peers through the opening of the bedroom door at the sight of Credence dry-humping a pillow, his jaw going slack and a pitch black something curling low in his abdomen.

Against his better judgement, and not without internally scrutinizing his perverted saunter, Percival creeps closer to the doorway, in a way akin to a conniving fox preparing to pounce on an innocent rabbit. Except the conniving Percival wasn’t about to lunge upon this (not-so-innocent) innocent rabbit. He couldn’t embarrass the boy like that, especially since there was no way of knowing that he would even welcome Percival's participation.

But Percival would be _damned_ if he wasn’t going to let himself watch. His black eyes stare mesmerized at the clench of the pale knolls of Credence's ass, that pitch black something tickling its way up to his throat at a particularly resounding mewl, urging his hand to loosen his necktie. His other hand grips the doorframe, his forehead resting on the wooden trim and his intense eyes drinking up the erotic display on the bed. There’s a hungry twinkle that glistens in those eyes before they close, his ears allowing every delectable sound from Credence’s self-pleasure to penetrate their thin walls. The panting and the needy, indecent whining seduces the hand around Percival’s throat to trail down to his groin, and he roughly pushes the heel of his palm into the bulge in his work pants, letting out a breathless whisper.

“Sweet boy…”

“ _Mr. Graves!_ ”

His eyes snap open to catch the stutter of the boy’s hips against the pillow, and his hands move to their own accord when they push the door further open, the echo of the hinges reverberating off the walls of the small room, along with the quiet gasp of Credence’s name that escapes the older man’s lips. The noise startles Credence, and he’s flipping off the pillow and onto his bottom, his eyes wide and horrified when they settle on Percival's tall, dark figure in the doorway.

“M-Mr. Gra—,” the boy sputters profusely, scrambling to cup his hands over his swollen red cock, and Percival finally, cautiously crosses the threshold into the bedroom. “You... you we-weren’t supposed to be home—you weren’t supposed to be home…”

“Shh,” Percival hushes him, a finger at his lips as his starved eyes take in the boy’s sweat slicked hair, bitten-red lips, and rosy face. A wet stream interrupting the beautiful color on Credence’s cheeks is what brings it to his attention that the boy is crying. Whether it was before or after he walked in, Percival wasn’t sure.

“Sweet boy,” the older man repeats, loud enough this time so that Credence can hear the endearment, walking steadily over to the foot of the bed. “Let me help you.”

Percival watches his expression shift from fear to incredulousness to wonder, noting how Credence doesn’t flinch when the man snakes his hands up the bed towards his feet. His callused palms and teasing fingers skim his toes, his ankles, up the back of his calves, settling at the bend of his knees and gently, but insistently, tugging him down the bed so that he’s nose to nose with the older man. He’s still heaving when Percival sinks to his knees, those tanned hands shifting up to rub at the surface of Credence’s trembling, milky white thighs, his head slightly bowed over his hips so his hot breath tickles the boy’s throbbing erection.

“Please,” there’s a desperateness wavering in the man’s voice that Credence has never heard before, and when he lets himself stare down into those inky eyes, he sees nothing but pure desire awaiting the confirmation of reciprocation. “Let me help you.”

“Yes,” Credence whispers, his full lips quirking when a devilish smile creeps onto Percival’s face, a smile which quickly falls so that his mouth could engulf the too long neglected cock in front of him.

And Credence _screams_ , the unexpected (but wholly welcomed) heat of the older man’s mouth reigniting the fire that had been dwindling in his belly, the flames heightened so that they burn in his throat and leave it charred and dry. Hands grab and pull and smother the hair on Percival's head, scratching at the back of his neck when his tongue swirls. And the boy is still crying, tears catching in his long, dark eyelashes and dripping down his chin, damp and hot and almost insufferable. It’s through a choked sob that he comes, his abdomen clenching, thighs quaking, and jaw loosening, before he falls back onto the mused sheets in fatigue.

He winces when his cock is released from the man’s mouth, falling from Percival's lips with a lewd and wet popping sound, and soon after his still quivering thighs fall victim to an assault of open-mouthed kisses.

“Credence,” the older man’s dark, gravelly voice pulls the boy’s flushed lips into a sated smile. “You sweet, mouthwatering, magnificent creature. You’re mine now.”

“Yes, Mr. Graves. Thank you, Mr. Graves.”


End file.
